There’s not many British eccentrics as wonderful and awe-inspiringly mad as our Pete Um. His scattershot irreverent prose, weirdo-raps and surrealist sound-sculptures are pretty distinctive, I feel, and have a place in the marginal DIY art performance world inhabited by anyone from Ergo Phizmiz to Felix Kubin or The Rebel. I cannot easily start dissecting this gibbering new record of his. It’s like trying to psycho-analyse what goes on in David Shrigley’s head but with more LSD and gleeful irrelevance involved thus making the task a head-hurtingly impossible one.

This crazy man produces ace junk shop electronic pop/cabaret gems with more life, humour and imagination than is decent for such an endeavour, he really doesn’t give a fuck, man and I love him a great deal! I wonder if there is actually a book around in the inky-sphere with some of his writings in, he never floods his music with too many syllables and seemingly ad-libs, mutters, croons or freestyles rather than merely narrating. From lo-fi hobo gutter grooves to sinister, warped Jam-like head-fuckery, this is one mentalist journey that will leave you some place between delighted, terrified and perplexed.